


Blood on the Water

by aWICKEDgiraffe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Awkward Conversations, F/F, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas, Obsessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Redemption, Rivals-Turned-Friends, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Werewolf!Draco, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:33:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7872586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aWICKEDgiraffe/pseuds/aWICKEDgiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Harry stared at him, frozen.  “Malfoy,” he breathed.  His world had shifted sideways. “You—oh Merlin.  You’re not a Death Eater.  You’re a</i> werewolf."</p><p>On hiatus until TLATS is finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I am a subscriber to the whole "Draco was not a Death Eater, he was actually turned into a werewolf" theory (seriously, Google it, it's very compelling.) I was inspired to write my own story about it when I failed to find many satisfying fanfics with werewolf!Draco in them. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Warning: sporadic updates. I am a slow writer, and a very busy woman. I do what I can. Be patient with me!

_____

 i.  
_____

_Broken tile, shattered glass. His reflection off the flooded tile, water swirling around his ankles. Why did he look so horrified? Something dark slithering, swirling—snake! Nagini? No, no, not a vision—a dark, fluid something poaching the clear water and turning it bright red as it swirled. Oh god, don’t let it touch him, snake—no, no, that’s not right. Oh god. Blood! Blood on the water, creeping towards him, and now he could see the body, pale where the water was dark. No, no, he hadn’t meant—he didn’t want—! Face-down; white hair dipped in red; long, delicate fingers curled and limp, stretched out as if reaching for him. No, no, no—the water suddenly rising, whirlpooling, sucking him down into the void, he could hear a voice screaming at him, murder, murder in the bathroom—!_  

Harry gasped awake. Almost immediately, his face twisted up in an expression of guilt and anger, and he pounded a fist against his bedding. Damn it! Wasn't it enough to have visions of Voldemort and nightmares of Sirius and Cedric and his parents’ deaths? Now the universe wouldn’t let him forget he’d nearly killed Draco _bloody_ Malfoy in the 6th-floor boy’s loo.

Harry sighed, and grasped for his wand. “Tempus,” he muttered, and discovered that he’d only been asleep for about an hour—it was still evening. Judging from the lack of snores he heard from the other side of his four-poster bed, neither Ron nor Seamus had yet deigned to come up for the night. No doubt still stressing over that DADA essay ...

Not really in the mood to try and fall back asleep, Harry drew back his curtains and got up, padding softly over to the window and sitting on the ledge. He tucked his legs up underneath him and rested his chin in both hands, sleepily taking in the twilight haze that had fallen over the castle. The sun had set, but the moon had yet to rise—or perhaps it had, it was cloudy and hard to tell. Astronomy had taught the discerning wizard to be aware of the various celestial bodies around him—so Harry knew that if he managed to catch a peek of it through the cloud cover, it would be full. Thoughts lazily curled around in the space between his ears. Pieces of memories, ones that he’d reviewed many times over and over ... 

Stooped awkwardly under the Invisibility Cloak with Ron and Hermione, watching a nervous yet superior Draco Malfoy bully a fearful Borgin, lifting his sleeve and showing off his left arm to cow the man. It was the Dark Mark; Harry was certain. What else could make a seedy man like Borgin bend before a teenager? Not to mention Malfoy casually dropping names of his Death Eater pals ... Ron and Hermione could argue all they wanted against Voldemort making sixteen-year-old kids Death Eaters, but Harry knew that’s exactly what the madman had done. For whatever reason, Voldemort had trusted Malfoy with an important task—so didn’t it make sense for him to give Malfoy the mark of a trusted follower? 

His autumn months had been marked by a quest to catch Malfoy with his sleeves up—if he could just get a glimpse of the Dark Mark, he could finally prove to Ron and Hermione that his suspicions about Malfoy were warranted. And maybe get the pointy little prick expelled, as a bonus. Unfortunately, craning his neck in Potions class and spying through the branches of various poisonous plants in the greenhouse proved fruitless—not because he didn’t catch Malfoy rolling up the sleeves of his robes, but because Malfoy had taken to wearing long-sleeved shirts underneath, which remained unrolled and untouched. He was constantly wincing and favouring his arm as if it pained him. And really, if that wasn’t a sign of his guilt than Harry didn’t know what else was!

Hermione had remained unconvinced. “Harry, I know you’re dead set on Malfoy being a Death Eater, but has it occurred to you that maybe he’s just cold, or being fashionable, or—"

Harry’d interrupted her swiftly, irritated. “Never mind. I’ll catch him out some other way.” 

Harry shifted on the window ledge. Seamus had come into the dormitory, and he exchanged a pleasant goodnight with the Irish boy.

Turning back to the window, Harry thought about the time he’d first discovered Malfoy’s excursions to the Room of Requirement, and all his subsequent patrols of the 7th-floor corridor, waiting for a glimpse of that white-blond head or a whisper of what he was up to. He thought about how the Map had found a permanent home in his inside pocket, which he pulled out and spent countless minutes pouring over several thousand times a day. His friends called him _obsessed._  They were annoyed and worried about his habits, but Harry only scoffed. He was not _obsessed_ with Draco Malfoy. He just didn’t understand why his friends ignored the danger that the Slytherin posed.  He was Marked, he was doing some unknown task for Voldemort, and he was spending all his days and even some nights in the Room of Requirement—so much time that Hermione had heard his perfect marks were slipping. He. Was. Up. To. Something and Harry wouldn’t give up until he found out what. 

He still felt horrible for using Dark Magic on the Slytherin, even though Malfoy had been about to Crucio him. It gave him nightmares, like the one he’d just woken from—blood on the water, swirling and flooding forward in impossible red waves that drowned him while Myrtle screamed bloody murder. But even crushing guilt was not enough to deter his attentions, to stop him from checking the Maurader’s Map every few hours, or from following a pale head as it travelled around. Especially that last one.  His eyes did that one a lot.

Even with his recent new relationship with Ginny, even when the redhead pressed against his side in the Great Hall, or sat against his legs in the library, or strolling along hand-in-hand with Harry around the grounds—if there was even so much of a flash of white-blond, Harry’s eyes strayed. There was almost like a supernatural awareness of Malfoy, a sharp drawing power that had Harry’s head turning north like the south end of a magnet. He didn’t understand it and was only glad that Ginny didn’t notice, or didn’t care. She might make the wrong assumption, and Harry wouldn't be able to explain himself.  He already was incapable of making his _friends_ understand; he didn't need that with Ginny too.  

Harry sighed, scrubbing a hand over his tired face. Maybe he _was_ obsessed. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. But even as he thought this, his hand had automatically reached inside his pocket and drawn out the Map as it did whenever Harry thought about Malfoy, and he checked it. 

He jolted, suddenly wide awake. So far, Harry had never been lucky enough to catch Malfoy going in or coming out of the Room of Requirement.  But as Harry looked on, Malfoy’s tiny dot was making its way slowly and evasively towards the 7th-floor corridor, taking back staircases and doubling back as if to throw off pursuers. Not only that, Harry was shocked to see that he was accompanied by none other than Severus Snape.  Had Malfoy finally relented and let the greasy professor help him in his task? Most importantly—if Harry left right this second, could he beat the Slytherins to the Room, and be waiting invisibly when they arrived? 

Tonight was his chance. He could finally figure this out! Harry flew off the window ledge, snagged his Invisibility Cloak (which he hastily covered himself with so as to avoid questions from Ron) and was out of the portrait hole before anyone could say “scheming slimy Slytherins.” 

He ran. He was sure his feet were visible beneath the flapping Cloak, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Finally, _finally,_ Harry would have the proof he needed to bring Malfoy’s activities to light! He kept the Map out and checked it every few seconds, determined to beat those two little dots to their respective destination. Harry needn’t have worried—he was there in record time. 

He was briefly at a loss as to where to stand—he didn’t want to be too far away that he couldn’t dash into the room after Malfoy, but Harry also didn’t want to stand anywhere where he could be brushed against and discovered. Taking the nature of the room into account, Harry pictured the spot where the door usually appeared and stood off to the left of it.

Voices were soon heard, hushed but growing nearer.

“...Shouldn’t have waited so long,” said the oily voice of Snape. Just as it had been the night of Slughorn’s Christmas party, it was softer and vaguely paternal.

“Almost summer. Days are long. Moon isn’t up yet. Doesn’t matter.” Malfoy’s voice was hoarse and uncharacteristically short. He usually favoured long, dramatic whinges, but it almost sounded to Harry like every word was costing the Slytherin boy tremendous effort. 

“It _does_ matter, foolish boy! What if a student—one of your Housemates—saw you in this state? Distraction has caused you to be careless.” 

“It’s ... near the deadline. ‘Course I’m distracted,” Malfoy grit out. 

The pair rounded the corner, and Harry fought not to gasp. Malfoy looked like death warmed over, grey and drawn and feeble. He was being supported by Snape, who half-carried the blonde over to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and gently leant him against it. Judging from the sweat on his greasy brow, Snape had been lugging him around for a while. 

“Regardless of long summer days, it is now firmly night, and the moon has risen. You should have long since taken the potion and been in isolation. Do not be so careless again; it’s tedious. You are fortunate that it is cloudy, and we have successfully avoided windows.” 

Harry was lost. What did the moon and a potion have to do with the task given to Malfoy by Voldemort? Were there Order members patrolling outside, forcing the devious pair to avoid being seen through the windows? Were Malfoy and Snape about to attempt some ritual, one that required the consumption of a potion, and would be ruined by moonlight? He gripped his wand tighter under the Cloak. Perhaps that was why Malfoy looked ill and had been losing weight. Testing potions on himself, trying to find the right recipe?

Snape felt Malfoy’s forehead with the back of his hand and scoffed gently. “I remind you that I made a vow to keep you safe; I won’t appreciate it if your distractions get us both killed.”

Malfoy batted his hand away tiredly. “Never asked you to. You and Mother ... are interfering. I won’t appreciate it.” He hissed suddenly, his face screwing up as he clutched his left arm. Harry braced himself, expecting his scar to flare up, especially if Voldemort’s presence was as near as Draco’s Dark Mark. But it did not, and Harry watched on with confusion. 

“Your mother is devastated, lost, and more afraid for you than she lets on. But that’s enough; we’re done talking about this. There’s not much time left.” He dipped a hand into his robes and pulled out a potion bottle. He unstoppered it, and immediately a blue steam seemed to rise out of the bottle. Harry narrowed his eyes at it. It seemed ... familiar somehow. 

“I dare not ask whether you have been taking this in the past seven days as prescribed, as I am certain I won’t like the answer. Drink.” He shoved the potion in Malfoy’s limp hand and then began pacing in front of the Room. He didn’t say anything out loud, but his eyes were sharp and focused. No doubt he was quite specific in his request. 

Malfoy threw back the potion, sputtering and coughing after he swallowed. “Ugh.” The door to the Room had appeared—Harry was surprised to see a solid, heavy stone door instead of the usual wooden one. It was smaller than he expected and difficult to discern from the surrounding rock. Snape wasted no time; he pulled Malfoy away from the wall and hauled him over to the door. He spelled the door open, and both figures disappeared inside.

Harry didn’t waste a second—he dove in after them.

Inside was more like a prison cell than a room. Besides a pile of comfortable cushions in the corner and a long, skinny window, it was just a small chamber of rough-hewn rock and feeble torchlight. Harry crept as quietly as he could to the nearest corner, for the first time feeling like this had been a mistake. There was nothing here, no Dark artefacts or ritual preparations, no alchemical setups or ancient runes. If Harry was discovered, there was nowhere to run or hide.

Snape helped Malfoy lower himself to the cushions, and stepped far back. “I will wake Gregory and send him over with Pepper-Up and breakfast in the morning. I wish you an easy night.” With a last look at his godson, who grunted and steadily avoided eye-contact, Snape sighed and left, shutting the door behind him.

It was just Harry and Malfoy now. Harry didn’t pretend to know what was going on, but he could only think of this chance as a blessing. 

He pulled the Cloak off, revealing himself. “Expelliarmus!” He had the double satisfaction of seeing Malfoy jump about a foot in the air and catching his hawthorn wand before he’d even thought of drawing it. 

“Potter!” Malfoy’s jaw hung open, chest heaving, pulse racing. “What—how—“

“It’s over, Malfoy! I know you cursed Katie Bell; I know you poisoned Ron! I know you’re working on a task for Voldemort, something that will threaten all of Hogwarts. You’re going to tell me everything.”

Malfoy was extremely panicked, more so than Harry had ever seen him (and for the numerous times Malfoy had shown his cowardice, that was saying something.) His gaze snapped between Harry and the sky outside the slit window, and he seemed not to have heard Harry’s words at all. “Oh, Merlin. You can’t be here,” he nearly begged, taking Harry off-guard. “You have… t-to get out. Get out _now_!”

“You’re disarmed,” Harry insisted. “There’s nowhere to go, and no one here to help you out of this, Malfoy. I have questions, and you’re going to answer them!”

“Potter, _please_. You can’t...” he winced, clutching his left arm, sentence unfinished.

“That’s rich. A Malfoy said the ‘P’ word. What lovely manners you have! Does the Death Eater starter kit have an etiquette manual, how to murder people politely?” 

“D-death Eater? What are you … _talking_ about?”

“That lovely little stain on your arm that keeps paining you. You may keep it hidden, but you’re not fooling anyone. I know exactly what it is.” 

Draco looked briefly incredulous, and then his eyes flashed with pain again, and he looked away, gripping his arm tightly. “Y-you don’t know … _anything_ ,” he gritted out. “Leave.” 

Harry took a threatening step forward. “I know you have it! Voldemort replaced your _loser_ father with you when he gave you this task!” 

Draco briefly snarled in anger, but his eyes darted to the window again. “Listen, you idiot. I don’t _have_ the Dark Mark. You need to go. This is something … personal. Leave, p-please.” He gasped out loud, left arm spasming in pain, and he swayed. “Now! Go now!” 

Harry’s blood pounded in his ears. If the Mark was hurting that badly, something _big_ was about to happen. Not thinking clearly, he rushed forward and snagged Malfoy’s arm.

“What are you—no! **_Stop_**!” But it was too late. In one rough motion, Harry yanked up the sleeve of Malfoy’s robe and tore the shirt underneath, exposing the pale skin. He braced himself for the snake and skull and the confirmation of his suspicions.

He got a scar instead. 

“What ...?” 

Where there should be black, there was only red, gnarled and twisted and inflamed. Harry’s eyes widened at the nasty scar, which looked only partially healed. He could see the deep gouges of teeth marks, follow the obvious patterns of canines and incisors, and perfectly imagine what the massive jaws would have looked like clamped to that white arm. 

“Fuck you, Potter!” Malfoy spat, ripping his arm out of Harry’s grasp with surprising strength. “You had n-no right! You had no right at all! Get _out_!” 

Harry just stared at him, frozen. “ _Malfoy_ ,” he breathed. His world had shifted sideways. Everything slotted into place with terrible clarity. Why Malfoy’s arm had been paining him. Why he looked so ill all the time. Why the moon very much mattered to him. Why that potion had seemed familiar ... after all, hadn’t he seen Remus Lupin drink it countless times? 

“You—oh Merlin. You’re not a Death Eater. You’re a _werewolf_.” 

Liquid silver light poured in from the narrow window; the moon had finally broken from the cloud cover. It draped like silk over Malfoy’s white skin and caused him to buckle and fold. Harry jumped back and watched in horrified fascination as Malfoy whimpered and writhed, bones and muscle shifting under his skin. With what Harry guessed was his last vestiges of strength, Malfoy fought the change long enough to look up at Harry, his eyes desperate yet fierce.

They shone brilliantly gold.

 **“GET OUT!”** Malfoy roared. It was not a human sound. 

Harry turned and fled.


	2. Eighth Year

_____

ii.  
_____

 

**~2 Years Later~**

 

  

Harry Potter leant against one of the many bricked-over archways on Platform 9¾, arms crossed and eyes focused and sharp. Hidden by the casted shadows, he was able to observe the goings-on around him in relative peace.

Students shouted enthusiastic greetings to each other, and cats wound around their legs to get attention, and to annoy the owls by scenting their cages. Harry basked in the swirling colours, loud noises, and various smells that he remembered so well from his younger days, smiling fondly. The energy of new beginnings and excitement at returning to a beloved place hung heavy in the air and was a delight to breathe in. Gulp after gulp of this radiant energy had something tight inside Harry, a knot of sadness left over from the war, ease slightly. Seeing the peace and normality of the post-war Wizarding World always did Harry well.

Of course, that wasn’t the point of lingering in a shady alcove in Platform 9¾, not this time anyway—but it _was_ a nice bonus. He was people-watching, but his gaze was discerning and purposeful, scanning over every bobbing head in search of one particular colour, one he could recognise _anywhere._

Hermione had given him a look that was at once exasperated and resigned after he had passed off his floating trunk to her and told her why he wanted to linger. “Oh, Harry,” she had sighed. “ _Please_ tell me you’re not rekindling that old obsession …?”

Harry’d just given her a flat look. “It’s not an _obsession_. I just … it’s been two years, and I think a bit of closure would do us both some good.”

“Nothing that involves the pair of you could ever be considered _good_ ,” she’d muttered, sounding remarkably like Professor McGonagall. “How can you be sure he’s even coming, anyway?”

Harry could only shrug at that, conceding the point. “I can’t. I just have a hunch, is all.”

Hermione had looked at him searchingly for a moment more and then turned to board the train with their trunks floating obediently behind her. “Don’t get so distracted that you miss the train,” she’d called to him flippantly before disappearing.

Harry sighed, shifting against the wall. Though he was a bit annoyed at Hermione, he could only be (temporarily) glad that Ron wasn’t here. Hermione might’ve been tactful enough to leave him to it, but Ron would’ve hexed him the moment he'd declared his intentions. ‘ _It was for your own good, mate,’_ he’d have said after Harry woke up on the train covered in boils or something.

Hell, if someone had told Harry two years ago that he’d be here, skulking in the back waiting for _Draco_ bloody _Malfoy_ of all people to show up, he’d probably have hexed himself.

Two years ago, however, Draco Malfoy hadn’t been a werewolf to him, and Harry’s world had still made sense. Oh well, it was no use thinking too hard about it now, because Malfoy _was,_ and this world _didn’t,_ and Harry would like to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible, thank you very much.

He waited in that alcove for about eight more minutes, until the scarlet Hogwarts Express engine whistled its final warning and he had to board, lest he wanted to be left behind. His mood soured and his lip corners drew down into a pout as he stepped up onto the train. He looked down the line of compartments, feeling angry and muddled. He _must_ have missed him. Malfoy was already on board; he must have slipped by Harry in a moment of inattentiveness—that _had_ to be it because the only alternative explanation was that Malfoy wasn’t coming, and that just … sounded  _wrong._  

He ended up searching every single compartment of the train, _twice_ , before he was finally found by an exasperated yet fond Hermione and pulled into their friends’ compartment. With great apparent effort, she refrained from teasing him, if only because Harry could _feel_ the crestfallen look on his face. 

Draco Malfoy wasn’t on the train, and Harry could only feel intensely disappointed about it. An entire summer of brooding, of planning and practising his “We Should Talk About How I Know You’re A Werewolf” speech over and over again, gone. _Wasted._ He’d imagined so many potential interactions and conversations with Draco in his head that he’d effectively fooled himself into thinking the blond's presence would be a certainty.

It was so stupid, he thought, staring vacantly out of the train window with his chin in his hand and barely listening to the chatter around him. Why had he worked himself up to the point of vibrating excitement last night in anticipation of meeting the blond werewolf today? Why did the thought of no Malfoy this year make him feel unbalanced and dismayed? How could he have let his feelings about the glib Slytherin get so twisted up in his head?

“Harry?” Ginny interrupted his moody thoughts, reaching over to touch his knee in a concerned gesture. “Are you alright? You’ve been quiet.”

He made himself smile. He was so lucky that he still had Ginny in his life. After the war, their relationship had felt awkward and barely a tiptoe past amicable. They were both unsure of their futures, and not in the right headspace for romance. “We all need some time to heal, I think,” she’d said, and they'd had a respectful and mutual breakup. She’d made it so _easy_ after that, falling right back into the place of one of his dearest friends. She really ought to be Sainted.

“Yeah, Gin, I’m fine. Sorry. Keep talking about that case of Bill’s; I’d like to hear how it ended.” 

Harry forced himself to turn away from the window and pay attention. Hermione was right—he’d been all keyed up, ready to rekindle an obsession between him and Draco—had _already_ rekindled it. But that stopped _now._ So what if Malfoy wasn’t going to be at school this year? It was a _good_ thing. Harry’s school year was going to be normal for the first time, filled with nothing more sinister than Double-Potions homework and N.E.W.T exams. 

He viciously crushed the little voice inside him that whispered, _‘Boring.’_

 

 

•–•–•

 

 

Harry spent the rest of the train ride chatting and catching up with Ginny, Luna, and Neville. With Hermione telling embarrassing anecdotes about Ron beside him, and Ginny and Neville giggling heartily across the way, it was easy enough to put thoughts of blond werewolves aside. They were still talking and laughing as they clambered off the train and piled into one of the Thestral carriages, which immediately took them up to the castle.

As soon as they entered Hogwarts through the double doors, Harry turned to go into the Great Hall—but was unexpectedly halted by a magically-amplified Professor McGonagall, who called for all Eighth years to join her in a room off to the side. Exchanging bemused looks with Hermione and Neville, they turned around and crammed into the small room with their year mates, feeling like they were eleven-years-old all over again.

“Attention, please. I have gathered you here to give you some relevant information. As you all know, you have been given special dispensation to attend Hogwarts as so-called ‘Eighth Years’ to complete the last year of your education that the war stole from you. However, as you are all considered to be of age in the eyes of the Wizarding World, I’m sorry to say things _cannot_ be as they were.” She looked around at all of them, and the room held its breath, concerned and tense. “First: as of this moment, all ties to your previous Houses will be severed.”

There was an explosion of protest in the room, as many Eighth Years shouted in shock and upset. Harry himself felt a painful tug at his heart. _Sever_ ties to Gryffindor, to the legacy and the people and the dormitory that had defined Harry as a person? How could McGonagall _possibly_ expect him just to forget about it?

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed, and she raised a hand for silence. They gave it to her immediately, because she was McGonagall and they didn’t dare do anything else. “It can’t be helped. You’re adults; you cannot live with children. It would be inappropriate.” She raised her wand high above their heads and muttered a difficult spell that Harry didn’t recognise. To his and the other Eighth Years’ amazement, the colour began to bleed out of all their scarves and ties, turning them from the four House colours into a uniform striped black-and-grey. The House Crests on their vests and outer robes similarly melded into the general Hogwarts Coat-of-Arms, erasing the evidence of their House loyalties for good.

McGonagall looked at her work with a critical eye and then nodded in satisfaction. “Good. From now on, consider yourself as members of the same House—you will live together, eat together, attend the same classes and share the same experiences. I will tolerate no grudges, no old House rivalries, and no bullying from any of you.” She eyed Theodore Nott, standing in the back row with a handful of other ex-Slytherins, particularly sternly. “You are adults now, and you will act like it. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Headmistress,” came the flat, uniform response. She didn’t look particularly inspired but continued nonetheless. “As for your living arrangements, there is an unused corridor of empty classrooms by the Hospital Wing that has been temporarily Transfigured into housing for all Eighth Years. Men and women have separate dormitories, and you all share a Common Room.

“Madam Pomfrey has made herself available as your House Advisor. If you have any questions or concerns, you are to take it up with her. She has assured me that her doors will remain open at any time of day or night, should any of you have any … immediate needs.” Her tone had become quite solemn, and everyone understood what she was talking about. The war had taken its toll on everyone, but some had suffered more than others, and there were many students here with mental traumas and finicky war wounds which would need special care. Harry looked down at his feet, not wanting to see anyone looking at him. Hermione put her hand in his and squeezed gently. He swallowed and squeezed back.

“If there are no further concerns or questions …” she hesitated, giving room for said interjections. When none were forthcoming, she continued. “There’s a fifth table on the far side of the Great Hall reserved for Eighth Years, next to Gryffindor. Go ahead and make your way there; the Sorting Ceremony should begin shortly. Enjoy the Feast.”

 

 

•–•–•

 

 

The Start-of-Term Feast was as familiar as it was surreal to the Eighth Years who’d returned to finish out their magical education. McGonagall didn’t announce them, and nobody stared at them unduly (besides the First Years), which is what Harry had been worried about. He’d somehow forgotten— _all_ the students of Hogwarts were war veterans of a sort, no less tragic and brave and brilliant than Harry or his friends.

But Harry couldn’t help but feel just the tiniest bit lonely, watching Ginny (they’d had to split up in the Entrance Hall, as she was a Seventh Year and still a regular Hogwarts student) and the other Gryffindor students sitting together, without him. It helped, of course, that Hermione and Neville were sat beside him—Luna too, and Dean and Seamus, and Terry Boot, and so many other familiar faces from other Houses. But there was also an awareness of the absences, a reminder the holes that were left behind by the war. Most notable was the lack of Ron, who’d chosen not to return to Hogwarts with him and Hermione this year. There were Cho Chang and the Patil twins, who’d fled the country and never come back. The Creevey brothers would also never come back, and Harry couldn’t think about them without feeling a deep pain in his heart. There was Lavender Brown, missing for the past two years and presumed dead, and Susan Bones, slaughtered with her family one year ago. Less felt but still noticeable was the absence of over half the Slytherins of their year, either dead or imprisoned or disgraced, and among them … 

Draco Malfoy, who _should_ be here but wasn’t. Somehow, though it confused and ashamed Harry to admit it, Malfoy’s absence was felt most of all. 

McGonagall, now the Headmistress of Hogwarts, stood up at the end of the feast and said a few sensible words about ‘never forgetting the bravery and tragedy of the war’, but ‘picking up the pieces and moving forward’.  Madam Pomfrey was before them directly afterwards, ready to show them to their new home within Hogwarts.

The Eighth Year rooms, located down a dead-end hall that Harry vaguely remembered from his numerous trips to the Hospital Wing, were much plainer than the ancient House dormitories of Hogwarts. It was to be expected, as Professor McGonagall had done the impeccable Transfiguration work, and she was hardly a fanciful woman.

Two identical suits of armour barred the entrance to the new wing with crossed halberds; a simple password called them to attention and cleared the stone door for admittance. Directly inside, where one would expect to see a comfortable Common Room, was only the same old classroom corridor that had previously existed, nearly untouched from its original. It stretched back about sixty feet or so, and was lined with neat black doors.

“Girls are on the right, boys on the left,” Madam Pomfrey called over her shoulder as she led the group of Eighth Years down to the centre of the corridor, stopping in front of a somewhat grander, doorless archway on the right-hand side.   She turned to address her audience full-on. “This is your Common Room. Please keep it tidy, as some of the older house elves are likely to forget that it exists, and subsequently forget to clean it. New passwords are posted on the notice board. Down at the end of the hall are the lavatories. Ladies, don’t fret about having to walk by the boys’ rooms in your dressing gowns—you can all access the toilets from within your dormitories.”

Harry, who was close to Madam Pomfrey at the head of the group, poked his head curiously into the Common Room. He had a few moments to take in a simple yet elegant interior, highlighted by ebony wood floors, a simple fireplace in carved in white stone, and many squashy black-buttoned armchairs and sofas scattered 'round. A large Hogwarts crest drew the eye over the fireplace mantle. Piles of throw pillows and cushions in various shades of black and grey were littered around low worktables, and black hanging lanterns lit the area with soft candlelight.

Hermione blew out a breath beside him. “I mean, it _looks_ comfortable, I suppose … but it also seems a bit intimidating, like the lobby of a snooty bank or law firm,” she commented softly.

“I have an intense desire to charm some colour into the place—McGonagall really tried to snuff the Gryffindor out of us, didn’t she?” Seamus said from Harry’s other side. “And the other Houses too, of course.”

Poppy Pomfrey pretended not to hear them, like the professional she was and continued blithely on. “The Hospital Wing and my quarters are right next door. Please don’t hesitate to come to me if you have any pressing need. My door is open at any time of day or night. Now—to bed the lot of you!” With that dismissal, the Eighth Years were free to begin opening dormitory doors to find their beds.

Harry found his dormitory towards the back end of the corridor, near the boy’s lavatory.   It was a spacious room, similar to the old Gryffindor dorms in that it had five beds evenly spaced along the length of the room, but very different in all other aspects. Most noticeably, the beds were not the grand behemoth four-posters that existed in the four ancient Houses but were instead standard-sized beds with soft black duvets and shiny brass bed knobs. There weren’t any hanging curtains at all. Harry didn’t necessarily care about the lack of privacy, but he was sure the girls and some of the most modest boys would be throwing fits about it.

Another difference was seeing Terry Boot claim one of the beds on the opposite side of the room. It was another clear reminder that this was not Gryffindor Tower and that they were all expected to integrate and get along with each other.

Altogether, there was Terry, Dean, Neville, Harry, and a fifth bed that Harry assumed was Seamus’s (though how the Irish boy had managed to set up his area before anyone else was a mystery.) Four Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw—that wouldn’t be so bad.

“Deeeeeeaaaaann!” Speak of the devil, Seamus entered their dormitory with a loud whine, wearing a pout. “It’s not fair, we’ve always had the same dormitory, we can’t be separated now! That old witch _can’t_ do this to us!”

Dean Thomas rolled his eyes at his childish beau. “It’s obvious, Shey—old McGoogles doesn’t want us getting up to adult mischief if you know what I mean.”

“Gross, mate,” Terry chimed in from the end of the room. “I’m with McGonagall on that one.”

Harry looked over at them confusedly. “Uh, Seamus? Isn’t this your bed, over here?” He pointed to the empty one beside his.

“What? No, I’m a couple of doors down, stuck with Ernie Macmillan and Zacharias Smith. Sweet Merlin, _someone_ save me from Zacharias Smith!” He whipped around and focused on Terry. “Oi, _Birdfoot,_ trade beds with me.”

Tuning the subsequent arguing out, Harry turned back to the empty bed. If it wasn’t Seamus’s, then who’s was it? He walked over and took a closer look.

There was a clean, elegant black trunk at the foot of the bed, with silver hinges and fastenings. The duvet was tucked impeccably in, showing no signs of disturbance. Harry would think no one had been there, except there were an antique-looking hairbrush and a stack of books on the bedside table. Feeling no qualms about snooping, Harry picked up the books. _Moste Potente Potions_ by Phineas Bourne, _Chēmía du Selene_ by Damocles, and a slim black journal that was full of equations, rune circles, and pages of notes done in a sharp, elegant scrawl. Harry squinted at it. The handwriting seemed familiar somehow …

And then, it was like _lightning_ struck Harry _._  Fiery tendrils shot down every nerve in his body, burning like adrenaline, excitement, and anticipation. Without a care, he threw the books down onto the neat bed and raced over to the window like Hell was on his heels. _Astronomy taught the discerning wizard to be aware of the movement of celestial bodies,_ and he knew what he would see before he even looked out into the clear night sky. 

A full moon, big and round and bright and _beautiful._ Harry grinned like a madman.

“Potter, er … you all right there?” Terry’s voice sounded hesitant somewhere below him, and Harry only vaguely registered that he was standing on Terry’s bed as to see better out the high window. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

He could only grin because _everything_ was all right. His heart was jumping in his chest, and the moon was full, and there was a claimed yet unoccupied bed beside his, and he was instantly and undoubtedly sure that he'd been wrong, on the train.

This year would _not_ be routine and boring because _Draco Malfoy was definitely at Hogwarts._


	3. Alone Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On that day, Draco Malfoy would rise from the ashes of his disgrace like a white phoenix, nobler and Purer than anything that ever came before him, and finally be considered worthy. Worthy of something good. Of someone good. 
> 
> Of himself.

_____

 

iii.

_____

 

_“Kneel.”_

_Draco Malfoy watched his regal father bend a knee for a madman, and tried desperately not to reach for his mother’s touch beside him, knowing that seeking comfort would be seen as an unforgivable weakness. And the Malfoy’s had been seen as unforgivably weak too many times already, hence his father’s current predicament._

_“Five of the finest Death Eaters in the Inner Circle, sent on a simple mission to spring a foolproof trap on a pack of unsuspecting_ children _, and retrieve a small glass orb.” Voldemort had his back to Father, long spindly hands clasped loosely behind him, and he spoke in a calm, neutral tone. “A plan that I had prepared in finest detail, and laid solid foundations for over the course of several months. A plan I left in the charge of my expert in all things relating to the Ministry, Lucius Malfoy.”_

_Father bent his head, a curtain of natural white-blond hair falling in its wake. Draco stared at the way the low light reflected off his father’s hair, marvelled at how each and every strand was cut to the same length. He couldn’t listen to the grovelling this evil man was inspiring in his childhood idol. “A thousand apologies, and then a thousand more, my Lord. We have failed you, and for this, we have no excuse.”_

_Voldemort turned around then, narrow eyes landing on Lucius. “We? There is no **we** , Lucius, only you. _You _failed to execute the plan in the Department of Mysteries._ Your _foul-up lead to the destruction of the Prophecy Orb, the item I have sought for more than a year._ Your _disappointments have piled up to such a degree that I am unsure a fitting punishment would leave enough of you left to be still useful to me.”_

 _His voice was still deadly calm, as he leant down to whisper in his Father’s ear. “And don’t think I have forgotten your careless handling of one of my most precious artefacts; one whose loss has cost me more than you could_ ever _hope to repay.” Draco watched as a slight shiver passed over Lucius’s spine._

_“I will not beg forgiveness, then, My Lord, for I do not deserve it. I can only apologise with utmost sincerity and accept any and all punishments you wish to bestow upon me. I will strive to work even harder towards the day of your glory after I have recovered.”_

_The coldness in Voldemort’s eyes glistened like spires of black ice. “I only wonder if such welcomed consequences would truly be effective, Lucius. I tend to think not. Strike you down, and you will get back up relatively whole and ready to make the same mistakes over again.” The Dark Lord’s eyes left Lucius’s bent form and circled the group of gathered followers until they inevitably found their way to Narcissa and Draco. “Luckily, I have pursued other options that I believe will hold more …_ personal _significance.” His soft voice suddenly became a barked order, loud in the still room. “Draco Malfoy, step forward.”_

_The line of his Father’s back tensed. His mother’s hand snatched reflexively at his sleeve, before immediately being withdrawn. Draco felt faint as he stepped forward, allowing Yaxley and Crabbe to flank his sides as he went to stand before the Dark Lord. “Yes, My Lord?”_

_Voldemort smiled in faux-gentility, while his cold, cold eyes took in Draco’s form from head to toe. “Such a fine boy, the apple of your father’s eye. Tell me, dear Draco, what does your blood status mean to you?”_

_A knot of tension rose in the pit of Draco’s stomach, but he answered with the response he was taught to parrot from birth. “Pure-blooded wizards are the true inheritors of the magical world. We have not been sullied by inferior breeding, and our blood is thick with the nobility of our ancestors. The Malfoy name is part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and my status as a Pureblood means I will inherit that name’s legacy—which means everything to me, my Lord.”_

_Voldemort’s smile grew, and long fingers reached up to cup the pale swell of Draco’s cheek. The blood ran frozen under the Dark Lord’s caress. “A perfect answer to the question, and a perfect solution for your father’s failures. Thank you, dear boy."_  

 _Lucius could not keep his head down at that. “My Lord, I’m afraid I don’t understand—”_

_“Silence, Lucius,” Voldemort hissed, and the elder Malfoy’s head once again bowed. His hand had moved to card through the boy’s white-blond hair almost lovingly. “Thousands of years of hopes and expectations of the honourable Malfoy and Black families, all culminating in a sole heir of purest blood, himself the very definition of nobility. My dear boy, Salazar Slytherin_ himself _would have put your name at the top of his list of deserving students.”_

_“Th-thank you, My Lord.”_

_Voldemort’s expression warped into a twisted mockery of compassion and regret. “And so what could a more fitting punishment **be** for Lucius’s constant failures, than to strip all of that away from his only son?”_

_Several things happened at once. Lucius’s head shot up with a gasp of shock so unhindered with any restraint that Draco had never heard another sound like it out of his father’s throat. Voldemort released him and called in a sharp voice for someone to bring in Fenrir Greyback. Narcissa screamed into the turbulent air and lunged forward, only to be restrained by a hesitant Aunt Bella. Yaxley and Crabbe seized Draco under his arms and forced him to kneel the floor, where they kept him pinned. Draco didn’t fight back, for he was too dazed and muddled, mind still stuck on Voldemort’s words. He didn't_ understand _them._

 _Fenrir Greyback loomed over his restrained form with animalistic, undeniable hunger in his eyes. Voldemort’s words were sinking in, and coupled with the werewolf’s central position in the room; it was becoming increasingly clear to Draco what was happening._

_“Greyback, the parent of this child has displeased me greatly and must be punished. I require your assistance in this task.” Voldemort’s red eyes bore into Draco’s with unrelenting force, and even with the imminent threat of Greyback in front of him, Draco could not look away._

_Static buzzed in his ears. Oh, Merlin, oh **God—**_

_He did not see Greyback lick his lips, or hear his answer. “You got it, boss.” Somewhere off to the side, Narcissa still screamed and pleaded and tried to fight off her sister. Lucius was being pinned to the floor as well now, by Avery and Carrick. He also was fighting and begging in a loud voice, pleading with the Dark Lord to leave his son out of his mistakes, to punish him, to kill him, anything but this—_

_Voldemort ignored his parent’s pleas. He looked over Greyback’s shoulder, contemplating Draco’s form. “Hm, on the left arm, I'd say. It’s where he would have been gifted the Dark Mark, if not for all this unpleasantness. Poetic, don’t you think?”_

_Yaxley moved his hand to grip Draco’s left wrist and pulled the arm tautly. Draco was starting to shake off the cotton in his head, to understand that this was happening to_ him _. His pulse a rabbit’s pace in his ears, grey eyes filling with fear, he found enough voice to speak._

_“M-my Lord, please …”_

_Voldemort came around to kneel before the restrained boy and began to delicately fold the sleeve of his robe up and out of the way. Draco shook with terror at his touch. “P-please, I will s-serve you faithfully, you m-must know I will. P-please. Isn’t there another w-way I can—”_

_Voldemort’s finger upon his lips burned like Fiendfyre. “Shh, shh. You are frightened, I understand. Your life is about to change forever; it’s all right to feel fear. But do not worry that I will not want you after this. Never fear that dear boy, for none of this is about you. In fact, I have a vital job for you this coming school year, one that will bring you glory and restore your family’s honour upon completion.” He ignored Greyback’s impatient whining and brushed a few strands of pale blond away from Draco’s forehead. “Consider this a gift, if you will. An edge I am granting you over your future opponent, one that could mean the difference between success and failure.”_

_He stood up, looked down at Draco from up high with a cold expression shuttering out the false compassion that had stained it only a moment before. “I only pray that the apple has fallen far enough from the tree that you don’t disappoint me.”_

_He walked away and didn’t look back once. Not as Greyback gave a triumphant howl and shifted; not as the sound of a wolf snarling and its jaws snapping pierced the air; and not as Draco screamed, screamed, and screamed, blood dripping and veins burning and pain all-consuming—_

 

 

•–•–•

 

 

Draco gasped and shot up into a sitting position, eyes wide and wild. He immediately regretted the action, as a million familiar aches lit up his body like a Dr Filibuster’s Fireworks display, hot and sparking.

He groaned miserably, slumping back onto the rotten wooden floors of the Shrieking Shack. Merlin, these kinds of mornings were the _worst_. He couldn’t stop from writhing a bit, feeling the deep sting of abuse in his muscles. He rode it out best he could, eyes shut and teeth clenched. 

Eventually, the pain subsided, and Draco began to gently massage and stretch his sore muscles, particularly in his limbs and neck. It was a long process, but a cathartic one and Draco was feeling very calm and relaxed by the time he was finished about an hour later. He stood up, indulging in one last full-body stretch that sent a pleasant shudder down his spine, and yawned. He felt blessedly _human._

The sun shone brightly through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, and the floorboards were warm under his toes as he padded over to a dusty old bookshelf that leant crookedly against the furthest wall. Draco had set his overnight bag on top of it, safe and out of the reach of four-legged beasts.

Inside were clean robes, medical supplies, his wand, and a phial of Pepper-Up potion. The hawthorn wand was in his hand first, and he used it to cast a mirroring charm on the nearest boarded-up window. He took in the reflection of his pale, drawn face, and was disgusted (but not surprised) to see sticky trails of curdled blood beneath his nose and ears. “ _Fuck_ ,” he swore softly as he wiped at the dried mess with a bare forearm. The loose flakes drifted to the floor lazily, like a gentle black snowfall. He sighed. “Guess it was another bad batch.”

He shook his head and then cast a proper cleaning charm on his face. When it was clear, he turned discerning eyes on rest of his naked form, looking for any deep wounds or bruising. Despite the bad batch of Wolfsbane he’d taken, it appeared that the injuries were superficial and quickly healed with a simple charm. He was _very_ lucky—bad batches usually meant deep claw marks and blood everywhere and new scarring and a painful morning bent over his medical kit.

Satisfied with his appearance, Draco went back to his bag and pulled out clean robes and the Pepper-Up. He dressed, knocked back the potion, and packed up all his belongings. Wand in pocket, bag slung over his shoulder; Draco made his way out of the Shrieking Shack and into the long, dusty tunnel that would take him back up to the Whomping Willow and Hogwarts. 

In the darkness of the secret passage, tendrils of his nightmare returned to Draco and curled around his ears. Whispers of a madman, echoes of his mother’s screams and father’s protests, and above it all a loud roar and a wet ripping sound— 

Draco shook his head, trying to shake the phantom noises away. _It’s not real, he’s gone, it’s not real._ He felt shaky and nauseous, and his feet stumbled in their path. _It’s the fault of the bad batch I took_ , Draco tried to reason with himself. _I’m not **afraid.**_ The thought rang like a plea in his head, defensive and self-justifying. It brought on another memory, from long ago—Draco had been six, barely out of toddlerhood. It was late at night, and he’d come running into his father’s office, terrified by a nightmare. Lucius had circled behind his crying child to strike a silver cane firmly against Draco’s lower back, silencing him and correcting his posture. _‘Stop snivelling! Malfoys do_ not _show weakness. Stand tall and proud, son, and do not be afraid—for you are the Malfoy_ _heir, a Pureblood of immeasurable worth. You are above all others, and have_ nothing _and_ no one _to fear. Bear your pure blood and your family name with pride and honour, and no one will_ ever _be able to take that away from you.’_

Draco gnashed his teeth together in a grimace. His father had got it all _wrong_. He _wasn’t_ a Pureblood anymore, and somebody _had_ taken that away from him, and _oops,_ Dad, didn’t see that coming, did you? Lucius had brought pure evil into their house, bowed and scraped to it, called it his master—and in doing so, had taught his son all the wrong lessons. Draco had learned that your worth was measured only by your usefulness; that you could be a victim, an enabler, and perpetrator all at once; and that fear could be a place, somewhere you dwelled and died.

Voldemort had taught Draco lessons, too. He taught him that the human spirit was a fragile thing, something that could be taken and broken easily. He taught him that pride could be a weapon, a slow-acting poison that you fed yourself. Voldemort’s teaching style was rather more hands-on than Lucius’s.

He’d read somewhere once that people were born all the same, and were only shaped into individuals by the life lessons they experienced as they grew up. Draco believed this. He’d learned his lessons well, after all, and had become a cowardly and worthless _beast_. 

Draco stumbled to a stop and sagged against the side of the tunnel. His fear and anxiety were near-unbearable weights on his chest. His breaths were harsh and ragged, and he screwed his eyes shut against the tears that threatened to leak. _Malfoys do not show weakness,_ breathe in _, Malfoys do not show weakness,_ breathe out _, Malfoys. Do. Not. Show. Weakness …_

Slowly, Draco managed to wrestle the crushing negative emotions back into their horrible little glass bottle and hid them away behind his heart. He didn’t hope that they were gone for good; he wasn’t stupid. But they were gone _for now,_ and Draco could feel calmer for it. A wave of quiet washed over him as he breathed slowly and deeply, eyes still closed. 

 _It’s okay._ He was not Pureblood Draco, and that was fine. Pureblood Draco had died over two years ago, but it would not be a permanent death. One day, Draco would find a cure. One day, he’d find the _best_ batch, the one remedy that would scrub his blood clean and take away the beast and make him _human_ again. There would be no more bad batches, no more waking up after a full moon covered in blood and pain. On that day, Draco Malfoy would _rise_ from the ashes of his disgrace like a white phoenix, nobler and Purer than anything that ever came before him, and finally be considered _worthy._ Worthy of something good. Of _someone_ good. Of _himself._

Mind clear and reassured of his goal; Draco finished his journey to the Whomping Willow in relative peace.

 

 

•–•–•

 

 

Harry Potter did not stay awake the night of the Feast, even though he felt keyed-up and energised after his revelation about Malfoy’s whereabouts. He very easily could have stayed awake thinking about their impending meeting, if not for the fact that he’d done _exactly_ that the previous night and was already tired from it.

So he slept, but it was a short nap that ended in the early hours of dawn before anyone else was awake. He didn’t have it in him to doze, so instead he crept silently out of their dormitory and down the hall into the new Common Room. 

He settled into one of the black-buttoned armchairs by the fireplace, staring at the smouldering embers left behind from the evening’s fire. In front of his eyes, new firewood appeared in the grate, and orange-red flames leapt to life. A house elf must’ve been nearby, invisible. Harry muttered thanks aloud, just in case. He might’ve imagined the soft, embarrassed squeak given in reply.

There were no windows for Harry to look out of here, but he could imagine the soft grey sky he had glimpsed briefly out of his dormitory window. He wondered if Malfoy was still a wolf, or if he had shifted back as soon as the moon had set. Was he in the Room of Requirement, or had he gone down to the Shrieking Shack? How long had Malfoy been here already? Did Headmistress McGonagall know about Draco’s werewolf status? Did Madam Pomfrey? Now that Snape was dead, who was brewing him Wolfsbane potion? These and a thousand more questions buzzed in his brain, each one clamouring for an answer. There was one question that seemed to clamour louder than all the others, a question about Harry himself; one whose answer remained frustratingly out of his grasp:

Why did he _care_ so much? Why did he wait two hours outside the Hogwarts Express for Malfoy to arrive? Why had he stayed up the night before that, practising conversations and imagining interactions between them? Why was he doing the same now, alone at the arse-crack of dawn?

It wasn’t as if Malfoy was any better of a person just because he was a werewolf. So he hadn’t been a Death Eater like Harry thought, okay. Point in his favour. But that didn’t absolve him of the five years he’d spent tormenting Harry and being an arrogant arse to all his friends. He was an elitist, pretentious _prick,_ and Harry didn’t like him _at all._ That hadn’t changed.

But there was another side to him, now; a third dimension that hadn’t existed to Harry before that moment in the Room of Requirement. It was a side that hinted at tragedy, and loss, and loneliness—hidden depth that mirrored Harry’s and called to him like a kindred spirit. Harry wanted to get to know this vulnerable Malfoy very badly, wanted to study the exact ways in which this reality had transformed the ex-Slytherin. Had it softened the blonde, or hardened him further? Did he still live by his classist and speciesist mindset, or did he have a new respect for those people now that he was one of them?

Was he okay? Did the bite hurt him, still? Did he feel utterly alone sometimes, like Harry did? Would he allow Harry to listen to his pains and help him through it if he could? Would he let Harry try? 

Harry sighed. He couldn’t deny that the possibilities of a … amicable acquaintanceship fascinated him. Even a tolerant association would be interesting and new. His head told him it was a pipe dream, but his heart wouldn’t listen. His heart was clamouring for him to find the werewolf, to confirm with his own two eyes that it _was_ Malfoy and that he wasn’t mistaken. 

That brought him back full-circle to his initial questions—was Malfoy more likely to be in the Room of Requirement, or the Shrieking Shack? On that night in the 6th year, Snape had hinted that the Room of Requirement was a last resort, only used because Malfoy had waited too long to isolate himself anywhere else for the full moon. But now, it seemed to Harry that Malfoy had already been here at _least_ a full day before the rest of the student body, judging from his absence from Platform 9¾ and the Start-of-Term Feast. He would have had plenty of time to leisurely stroll down to the Shrieking Shack and await the full moon, far away from the prying eyes of the returning Hogwarts students.

Yes, Malfoy was almost certainly at the Shrieking Shack. Today was the first day of classes, but all of Malfoy’s books were here in the dormitories—which meant that Malfoy would need to come back to the dormitories _before_ classes started, and Harry would have an opportunity to talk to him there.

Almost as soon as he’d had the thought, Harry dismissed it. All of the others would be in the dormitories too, all making startled sounds and questioning noises and demanding answers from Malfoy. Harry didn’t want that. Harry wanted to be the _only_ one asking him questions; the _only_ one to whom Malfoy gave answers. When they finally met face-to-face, after _two_ full years, Harry didn’t want Malfoy looking anywhere else.

These thoughts filled Harry with an incredible resolve and a terrible impatience all at once—he needed to catch Malfoy outside the dormitories, somewhere it would just be the two of them. Malfoy would be coming up from the Whomping Willow very shortly, to get his books and get ready for his first day. Where along the route from point A to point B could Harry ambush him? 

He thought he knew the answer. Smiling, Harry stood up and went to sneak back into his dormitory. He needed to collect a few tools first—and anyway, it was best not to corner Malfoy while still wearing pyjama bottoms and an offensively _orange_ pair of Chudley Cannon's slippers.  Not if he wanted to be hexed and left for dead on the front lawn.


	4. Thwarted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His blood still pulsed in his ears from having his hunch confirmed. It was one thing to think he recognized Malfoy's handwriting, and quite another to have the actual man walk in through the castle doors in front of him.

_____  
  
iv.  
_____

 

 _“You_ do _know how to cast a Disillusionment Charm, don’t you?”_

Severus Snape had asked Draco that in the beginning 6th year, when Draco had actually believed that he could keep up with his classes, keep his condition a secret from everyone in the castle, find a way to let in a whole bunch of Death Eaters, _and_ kill one of the most powerful wizards in the world. Needless to say, that belief hadn’t lasted long—one of those goals had failed almost immediately, and by the end of the year that number was two. It would have been _three_ , if not for Snape.

To Snape, Draco owed everything: his success, his sanity, and his very _life._ The debts were a terrible weight on Draco’s conscience because they could never be paid back. What wants did a dead man possess, after all, other than a sturdy casket and a quiet resting place? Draco hadn’t even been able to provide _those_ trivial things. He’d lost his chance, stuck under house arrest while awaiting trial. The Order of the Phoenix had considered Severus one of their own and given him a hero’s funeral. Draco tried to tell himself it was better that way—better a loud, crowded celebratory send-off than a quiet, elegant burial attended by a couple of Pureblood sadsacks (and one pathetic werewolf). Draco thought could bear the weight of the life debts, in exchange for that.

Draco sighed, fingering his Hawthorn wand. The opening of the secret tunnel was above him, elevated above a ramp made of hard-packed dirt. There wasn’t much room to manoeuvre up there, so he needed to cast the Disillusionment spell now.

Snape’s voice echoed in his head again. _“You must take care not to be seen around the Whomping Willow. There are a handful of students here who_ do _know its intended purpose, and if they see you there around a full moon, they’ll ask questions. You may be able to pass it off as random chance, but it would be stupid to tempt fate. Wear the Disillusionment Charm before you even step foot out of the dungeons. Stay alerted, be vigilant, and you may yet keep your secret.”_

“Yes, Godfather,” Draco murmured to the echoes and twirled his wand around himself in a counter-clockwise motion. The familiar raw-egg sensation trickled down his spine and into his extremities, causing him to shiver, and then he was invisible. 

He climbed the ramp as quietly as he could and peered out of the hole at the top. He didn’t see any movement, or hear any sounds of students nearby, so he reached out his invisible arm and pressed the knot that would freeze the Whomping Willow and allow him a safe exit. 

It wasn’t chilly up on the Hogwarts grounds, as it was only September 2nd—but there was a hint of the autumn crispness in the wind that told Draco the cold weather wasn’t far off. The next time he came down here, he mused, he’d need to pack a cloak.

He kept his feet quiet in the dewy grass and did his best to avoid leaving visible footprints. A boy was running in the distance, some early-bird student going for a morning jog _._ A thestral looped lazily over the Forbidden Forest. Overhead, there was a flock of birds in their V formation, already migrating for winter. He was surrounded on all sides by life, but the Disillusionment Charm made him feel detached and unobtrusive. It was peaceful. He had the stray thought that it would be nice if he owned a reliable Invisibility Cloak, for moments like this. Disillusionment served its purpose, but invisibility without effort or energy sounded pretty good.

His eyes strayed to the many castle windows facing in his direction, looking for eyes. He was nervous about returning to the Eighth-Year dormitory, now full of returned students where it had been blissfully empty before he’d left for the Shrieking Shack. He contemplated leaving his Disillusionment Charm on, despite the amount of energy it took to maintain it. He wasn’t looking forward to the questions, the disdain, and the outright hostility that his appearance would inspire. He _especially_ wasn’t looking forward to seeing … _that_ person again.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice. The Hero of the Wizarding World, pretending like he had _any_ business coming back to Hogwarts, like he _couldn’t_ get a job doing whatever he pleased, with or without N.E.W.Ts. It had made Draco nearly shake with rage when he’d heard about Potter’s decision to come back with the rest of them. Why did he have to ruin everything? All Draco wanted to do this year was find a bit of peace, and work on getting his health and his future back on track—but no. Now Potter had made that _impossible_. Draco wouldn’t be able to relax at all, because of the one fact he could never allow himself to forget:

Harry Potter _knew._  

The thought terrified Draco. Honestly, he had been scared from the very first moment; when he’d woken up from a very rough transformation in the Room of Requirement at the end of 6th year and had had Potter’s shocked and horrified face fresh in his memory. He’d been _positive_ that the whole castle would know of his disgrace by lunchtime. After all, though Potter might only tell a few friends, the Weasel (undoubtedly one of said friends) would make sure to tell anyone and _everyone_ he met about it. Draco would have done the same, in his position.

Much to his utter surprise, however, no one had seemed to know anything about it. No one had shrieked at him, or spat at him, or even _looked_ at him funny (no more than usual, anyway, in the Gryffindors’ case.) Not even _Granger_ had seemed to know, and the only conclusion he could come to was that Potter hadn’t told anyone at all _—_

And Draco didn’t know what to make of that.

Malfoy’s feet hit cobblestone, and he forcefully set his fears aside. Either Potter had told them, or he hadn’t; either way, it wouldn’t get him kicked out. McGonagall knew about his werewolf status and had accepted him back to Hogwarts anyway. If the other Eighth Years wanted to give him hell about it, then he would just avoid them. He didn’t plan on spending much time in the dormitory. _It would be okay_. (Just breathe, slowly, in-and-out. It’s okay. _It’s okay_.) Harry Potter knew he was a werewolf, and that was _not_ the end of the world (even if it felt just a little bit apocalyptic).

Draco snorted out his final, calming breath. That nosy little bastard could sneak around at night for a place to fuck himself and leave Draco well enough out of it.

He’d just approached the castle doors, debating whether or not to dispel the Disillusionment or risk a student seeing the doors open by themselves, when a sudden voice made him start violently. 

"Good morning, Mr Malfoy."

Malfoy turned to see Headmistress McGonagall wandering up the long drive from the castle gates. Had she been at Hogsmeade last night? Better yet, how had she known he was there? Draco looked down in confusion but still found himself firmly under the Disillusionment Charm.

"You may be invisible, Mr Malfoy, but you are not inaudible. This castle has a very many magical things within it, but wheezing hedges were not one of them, last I checked."

He rolled his eyes at himself, wondering why he was so slow and cast a quick, wandless _finite._ "Good morning, Headmistress," he replied respectfully after his form flickered into view. He climbed the stairs ahead of McGonagall and held the castle door open for her with a neat little bow. In truth, his tone and his actions were done with utmost sincerity, because this woman had _personally_ invited him back to Hogwarts despite his questionable war alliances and even more questionable health condition, and deserved every damn bit of respect he could muster for it.

She observed him carefully, a heaviness to her expression that he couldn't quite place. He resisted the urge to squirm. "I trust it was an easy night?" She finally asked, with an easiness that belied the dark circles under her eyes.

He thought of bad batches and blood under the nose, and said, "Yes, ma'am. Very easy." He followed after her into the Entrance Hall, letting the big oak doors shut behind him.

"And Severus's laboratory? Is it serving you well? I do wish you would let Professor Slughorn oversee your work, but I understand your hesitation to involve anyone else," McGonagall said. She had stopped in the middle of the hall; her attention on him fully once more. Draco really did squirm then—after all, in his previous experience, having McGonagall's full attention while not being a Gryffindor student usually meant one was in a _world_ of trouble.

"Er, yes, it's been well-kept, and Professor Snape's personal stores are very well stocked. It has all the supplies I need, and the ingredient stores should last me until mid-December." His eyes kept wandering over her shoulders, where a few students were making their way to the Great Hall for breakfast. He felt uncomfortable and exposed, like someone was watching him intensely. He wanted to escape.

To his horror, McGonagall stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "If you ever need assistance with anything, I implore you to come to me immediately. I know that your prowess in the Potions lab is formidable, and your skills made Severus very proud—but you're a far cry from a Potions Master, and it's a tough potion to brew. I need to be assured of your safety. Can you give me that assurance?"

Draco winced. Was she … _mothering_ him? Sweet Merlin that was embarrassing. Did Gryffindors have to deal with this all the time? He couldn't even imagine it.

Draco chose his words carefully because he respected McGonagall and didn't want to lie to her. "Yes, Headmistress, Professor Snape taught me very well. I know exactly what I'm doing. I've had a whole year to practice." It was true that he knew everything there was to know about brewing a safe Wolfsbane Potion—but nothing about his experimental potions could be considered safe. It was risky and foolish of him, but Severus had always said that Potioneers who feared failure never made progress—and Draco was ready to _progress._

"Hmm," McGonagall hummed, and for a moment Draco was struck with the horror that she'd seen through his misdirection—her sombre gaze was heavy upon him, and she opened her mouth as if to say something else.  But then she only patted his shoulder and turned away. "Very well then. Come and eat some breakfast before you return to the dormitories, you're looking a bit peaky. A nice, strong cup of tea will set you to rights; Professor Lupin was just the same …"

Confused but relieved, Draco let himself be herded into breakfast. But it was strange … just before he disappeared into the Great Hall, Draco could have _sworn_ he caught a flash of a disembodied trainer in an alcove near the castle doors …

 

 

•–•–•

 

 

 

“Dammit!”

Harry couldn’t help but kick the wall in frustration as he watched Malfoy get whisked away from him, feeling incredibly thwarted and a bit uncharitable towards Professor McGonagall. If only she hadn’t been there, Harry’s ambush would have worked _perfectly_! 

His blood was still pulsing in his ears from having his hunch confirmed. It was one thing to think he recognised Malfoy’s handwriting, and quite another to have the actual man walk in through the castle doors in front of him. Malfoy _was_ here at Hogwarts, and Harry could _finally_ put some closure to these feelings; the damn suffocating, twisting, wrenching feelings he’d had for two years _._ They angered and exhausted him.

He exhaled slowly and rested his forehead against the cool stone. He just wanted all of them _gone_.

Harry shrugged the Invisibility Cloak off carelessly, startling a passing Slytherin Second Year by suddenly appearing out of nowhere. Ignoring her shriek, he stuffed the cloak into a pocket and stalked over to the Great Hall doors, peering inside. 

His eyes locked onto Malfoy’s white-blond head unerringly, as they always did. The werewolf was sitting at the Eighth Year’s table, his long fingers wrapped around a cup of steaming tea in front of him. It looked as if he’d been sat by himself initially, but had since been approached by a few Eighth years and even some younger Slytherins. They gathered around him, a sea of surprised and curious faces all talking at once, asking the questions that Harry himself wanted to be answered. Malfoy’s grey eyes were luminous in the early morning light, a mirror that reflected the grey sky above him. He was speaking; Harry couldn’t parse what was being said.

He huffed and turned away. When he again met Malfoy face-to-face, he refused to be just another hanger-on in a curious crowd. None of them would be getting any truthful answers out of him, anyway. Harry was the only one who knew the truth of him, his sole Secret-Keeper.

And so, like a puppy with its tail tucked between its legs, he turned heel and slunk back to the Eighth Year dormitories. He was already dressed from his early-morning excursion, so he merely dropped the Invisibility Cloak in his trunk and grabbed his school bag. He didn’t look at Malfoy’s bed at all.

As expected, Hermione was already in the Common Room, taking notes on a Charms chapter that no one else would look at until December, probably, because she was a crazy person. But she was _his_ crazy person, so he didn’t hesitate to go over and sit next to her. 

“Morning, ‘Mione.” 

She lifted her head in surprise as he plopped his bag down. “Harry! It’s rare to see you up this early. What’s the occasion?” 

Harry tapped his fingers on the table for a bit, and then decided just to be truthful with her. “Malfoy’s here. I saw him just now, down in the Great Hall.” 

Hermione stared at him, wide-eyed. She set down her pen before croaking out, “H-here?” She cleared her throat. “But he wasn’t on the train! He wasn’t at the Feast either. I know you noticed—you were looking for him, even when we got to the dorms.” 

“And so were you, apparently,” Harry said dryly. Hermione flushed but shook her head. 

“No, I wasn’t. Just watching _you_ and wondering if you were going to give yourself whiplash with all that swivelling about.” Harry gave her an innocent look, one that she didn’t buy for a minute. “Anyway, what could have caused Malfoy to arrive late to Hogwarts by an entire _day_? That doesn’t happen, does it?” 

“In my experience, there are all sorts of weird things that can happen to make you miss the train,” he countered. The fact that Malfoy had, in all likelihood, been a day _early_ to Hogwarts burned in his mind, but he didn’t let his tongue loose. Hermione was already curious about something dangerous, something that could very well lead to a clever revelation about Malfoy, and that was the last thing Harry wanted. Until the pair of them could get this whole werewolf mess sorted out between them, Harry didn’t want to share any part of it with anybody else—not even Hermione. 

Besides, Harry thought to himself; it wasn’t his place to tell Malfoy’s secrets, only to keep them. 

“Harry, did you _know_ he was coming? Yesterday on the train you were so distant, and even last night at the Feast, it was like you were just waiting for him to come bursting through the door. Why _?_ ”

“I _didn’t_ know if he was coming, I swear. Honestly, when I didn’t see him on the train, I figured I’d been wrong, and that was the end of it. But then last night, there was an empty bed in my dormitory that nobody had claimed, and the feeling came back. Why would the castle put it there if there wasn't another person coming?  That's what I thought, anyway.  So I got up early and went down to the Great Hall to check, and … _yeah._ He’s here.”

"Did you talk to him?"

Harry shook his head.  "Er, no.  There was a crowd, already ... I decided to wait until I could, you know, talk to him by himself." 

Hermione bit her lip and looked away, apparently upset, and Harry didn’t know why. He looked at her helplessly and took both her hands in his. He _wanted_ to be honest with her! He just didn’t know how to do it without betraying Malfoy’s secret.

“Look. I know it doesn’t make sense, why I’d want to talk to him. He’s an arrogant prat and was our clear enemy not too long ago. But … back then there was a moment or two where I felt like I could understand him, just a bit. I don’t think he really wanted to follow Voldemort, and I think he suffered a lot for his family. And, well, we can understand that, can’t we? I mean, he certainly has a lot to apologise for, and things couldn’t be good with us right away … but it’s _possible_. I think it’s possible to become friends with Draco Malfoy. And I want to try,” Harry explained. 

Hermione squeezed his hands at his show of earnestness. Her eyes were shining, but she was still worrying at her bottom lip, clearly torn. “Oh, Harry—I don’t think Malfoy deserves it at _all_ ... but if you want to give him a chance, then I won’t stop you.” Her eyes steeled, moisture wicking away, and she turned back to stare at him with fortitude. “Just promise me. Promise me you won’t let him drag you backwards, Harry. Not when you’re _finally_ free of Voldemort. It's time for you to move on—for _all_ of us to move on. You can’t do that if you let Draco Malfoy keep you in the past. _Promise m_ e, Harry!”

Harry squeezed her hands back, rather desperately. She didn’t know the whole story, Harry said to himself. She couldn't understand Malfoy like he did, but that wasn’t her fault. She said she wouldn’t interfere, and that’s all he needed for now. “I promise, Hermione.” 

As he helped Hermione pack up her belongings, the both of them ready to go down to the Great Hall and face the day and whatever it would bring—Harry felt like a liar.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for awhile, sorry folks. School's started up again, I just don't have the time to write as much as I'd like to. Put me on the back burner for now, I'll be back ;)


	5. Summons

**_____**

**V  
** **_____**

How could it be, Draco wondered as he trudged up the stairs to the first-floor corridor, that having his bones painfully rearranged twice in one night was somehow _less_ exhausting than sitting down to tea in the Great Hall? Granted, it had been more like an interrogation at the hands of the Wizengamot than a friendly breakfast milieu, but that was beside the point.

He couldn’t suppress a shiver, remembering the onslaught of suspicious questions and biting remarks; remembering how the students’ scents had surrounded him and overwhelmed him and set his nerves to singing—he didn’t want to do that again anytime soon. But the day was only beginning, and he knew that more of the same was waiting for him just around the corner. That **_he_** was waiting just around the corner … 

Draco tsked in irritation and forced himself to clear his mind. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting the familiar sights and sounds of Hogwarts castle settle him. 

Once upon a time, Draco would have described the halls of Hogwarts as quiet and relatively unremarkable, significant only when seeking out those landmarks he long ago learned to use to find his way around, and irrelevant otherwise. He’d never done the plebeian thing of stopping every few feet to gawp at this painting, or look at this artefact or that decoration, etc.—the halls of Malfoy Manor were elaborately decorated with paintings and objects far more beautiful than those of Hogwarts, so he’d never been impressed. 

But then he’d acquired his … _condition,_ and everything changed. Suddenly, Draco could see Hogwarts through the lens of naïve ignorance and could deign to understand the childlike wonder of a Muggleborn First-Year. There was much pleasure to be had for a werewolf in a place as old as Hogwarts. It was brimming with interesting things to hear and smell and see, and Draco took his time going back to his dormitory, losing himself in the pure joy of cataloguing centuries worth of Wizarding history.

He looked, and listened, and breathed everything in, one piece of data at a time: _lemon-scented floor wax; a portrait’s sneeze. The soft smell of cotton and wool; the faint acrid smell of different dyes. A suit of armour moving about on the floor above him; the sweet scent of cedar and pine wood. Harry Potter’s voice in a distant conversation._

Wait, _what?_ Draco’s eyes snapped up. He’d just turned the corner into the Eighth-Year’s wing when he’d heard it. And now his eyes confirmed—Potter had just come out from between the suits of armour, but his head was turned backwards, and he was speaking to someone still inside the dormitories. He had not seen Draco. 

Draco’s reaction was instant and instinctive and _idiotic._ He whirled back around the corner he’d just turned and pressed his body flat against the wall, heart hammering loudly in his ears. Damn-it-all, but the fight-or-flight instinct was so much _stronger_ in the wolf …! His mind railed against the instincts as he cast about desperately for a place to hide, but his body didn’t listen, and all six feet of it subsequently stuffed itself inside a broom cupboard and behind a rubbish bin. 

Overwhelmed with the smell of cleaning products, arms and legs folded up tightly against his body, Draco’s mind finally came back under human control.   “Fuck,” he muttered, cursing the wolf inside him as he had every day for two years. 

He was _not_ bloody afraid of Harry Potter! So why did the wolf care if Potter saw him? Draco had nothing to say to the Saviour of the Wizarding World, and if Potter were even _remotely_ intelligent, he would have nothing to say to Draco, either. There was no need to be afraid to be near him, or pass him in the halls, or be alone with him. It was unnecessary for him—for the _wolf_ to be afraid of Potter at all. 

Despite these reaffirmations, Draco couldn’t move from his spot behind the bin. He barely breathed as all his senses zeroed in on the corridor outside the door, and on the voice that had long ago seared its timbre in his brain.

He waited.

 

**•–•–•**

 

“Harry … what if Malfoy doesn’t want to speak to you? What if he hasn’t changed, or he has but still doesn’t want anything to do with you?”

Harry had just opened the door of the 8th-Year dormitories, but Hermione’s words stilled his hand as he turned to look at her. “I …” he began unsurely, trying to formulate his thoughts carefully, “…don’t think that’s the case. For one, the war changed all of us. Two, and I know this is just a feeling, but I think he’ll agree that there are things we have to talk about.” 

Hermione frowned again, but then deliberately smoothed out her expression into something more casual. “If he’s still at breakfast, will you talk to him then?” 

Harry finally moved again, holding the door open as Hermione breezed past him. “Er, I dunno. Maybe not—if he talks to me first I’ll have to, but I really want to have our conversation alone, with no onlookers.” 

Hermione lifted an eyebrow. “That’s a bit worrying, the way you say that. Just what kind of ‘conversation’ do you plan on having, Harry?” 

“Ugh, Hermione, I’m not going to _fight_ him or anything. Honestly, we’ve grown up now! We can have a civil conversation without coming to blows, I promise. Well … _I_ can, at least.” 

Hermione didn’t respond with words, but her highly dubious expression was response enough. Harry sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I thought we were finished with this conversation. Can we be finished, please?” Although he was glad that Hermione was joking about it now—a vast improvement over the almost-tears she had been in earlier. He _hated_ it when Hermione cried.   Not in the least because Ron would kill him if he found out Harry was the cause. 

Hermione made a show of thinking about his request but then smiled. “Oh, alright then. Let’s put our heads together and draft up a study schedule instead. It’s never too early to think about these things!” 

Harry screwed up his face and feigned terrible chest pains. “I’d rather hear you talk about your _sex_ _life_ than about studying on the first day of school, I really would.”

Hermione flushed but smirked rather deviously. “Oh, good! I haven’t any girlfriends at home to gossip with, I’m glad you’re offering. So the other night, Ron and I—” 

“Hermione, stop! I didn’t mean it!”

“So I can’t talk about Malfoy, you won’t let me talk about studying, and now you won’t even hear the sweet nothings my Ronald whispers in my ear as we—” 

“ _Hermione!”_

They giggled together, pink-faced and pleased with themselves, and Harry’s heart ached with how much he loved his friend. He only wished Ron could be here with them, the Golden Trio together and complete. 

Hermione put her arm through Harry’s as they turned the corner and made their way down the corridor. “In all seriousness, I got an owl from Ron last night.”

“Oh, that’s great! How’s he getting on, then? Is he still plotting the murder of that one Auror trainee?” 

That was all the encouragement Hermione needed. She described every detail of the last few conversations she’d had with her best friend and lover, starting with dissecting Ron’s daily schedule and then going on to share anecdotes about the people Ron worked with and trained under. Harry let the familiar cadence of Hermione’s mile-a-minute speech wash over him, feeling calm and terribly fond of the pair of them. 

It both warmed him and left him feeling a little ache, hearing the absolute love pouring from Hermione’s words as she talked about her most precious person. Would he ever have someone like that, someone to trust his heart to unconditionally? Harry wanted someone to love him for who he was—to love him as an average, everyday wizard and not as the Boy Who Lived or the Vanquisher of the Dark Lord. He wanted someone who could look past his fame and see him as he was, just Harry. Someone dependable like Ron, and brilliant like Hermione; a beauty like Cho Chang, with fire and passion like Ginny. Did such a person even exist? Would someone like that ever fall for ‘just Harry’? 

He smiled gently as Hermione talked rapidly, obvious stars in her eyes and a spring in her step. No matter who he found to love him, that person could never come between Harry and his best friends, his family. The Golden Trio could never be allowed to crack under the pressure of a fourth temperament, no matter what the cost.

Arm still wound through Hermione’s, still smiling brightly, Harry matched her gait as they headed down the stairs to the Great Hall. No make-believe lover would _ever_ be worth losing this.

**•–•–•**

_Move,_ Draco thought to himself. _He’s gone, it’s been two minutes, **move** already …!_

“Damn it!” Draco hissed softly and clenched his fists in irritation. “I’ve bloody well lost it. I’ve gone completely mental! _Move_ , you damn cur!” And he took hold of his leg and physically forced it to unbend, upending a bucket in the process. 

The wolf hadn’t settled in the least. Draco could feel it, highly charged and close to the surface, stalking through his thoughts of Potter with its tail between its legs and its ears pressed flat. _Danger,_ it was whispering non-stop, _Not Pack, No Trust. Knows Too Much, Must Stalk Hunt Kill—_

“Shut up, shut _up!”_ Draco snarled and forcefully uncurled his other leg. “I am _not_ afraid of Harry _bloody_ Potter!” He surged upwards with the force of his anger, wincing as pins-and-needles erupted down his legs and into his feet.

He felt like crying, like running away—just more _bloody_ emotional responses that he couldn’t seem to control these days. _Malfoys do not show weakness, Malfoys do not show weakness …_ He tried his usual calming mantra, to settle himself and the wolf, but it wasn’t working. The noise in his brain only got louder. 

 _Danger! Danger! Blood, Sharp Teeth, Thrill of the Hunt, Where is the Pack? Wrong, Lonely, Need Pack, Where’s Pack—_

“Stop!” Draco hissed at the pacing beast, clutching his head and crouching low on the wall, numb legs shaking. He couldn’t run away from something inside his own brain, but he could do his best to construct a mental block between him and the creature. It was a strange application of the Occlumency skills his godfather had taught him, and it didn’t always work—after all, it was meant to block invaders from the outside, and the wolf was already on the inside. Thankfully, it seemed to do the trick now, and he heaved a sigh of relief as the growling, primitive non-voice faded away. 

 _Malfoys do not show weakness. Breathe._ Without the unwanted emotional backwash, Draco found he could now reign himself in, calm his breaths and his turbulent thoughts. He hobbled as aristocratically as he could out of the broom cupboard, almost falling over in the process. (Having one’s nose in the air made it harder to see buckets on the floor one had previously kicked over, after all.) The corridor was deserted when he emerged, thank Merlin. Draco rocked back and forth on his toes a few times, trying to dispel the numbness, and then set off down the rest of the corridor and to the 8 th-Year dorms. 

“Unity,” he said to the twin suits of armour with only the slightest amount of disdain, and the halberds uncrossed before him. He hesitated a moment to take a breath and square his shoulders and then headed inside. He strode down the hall with confidence, ignoring the startled glances he received from the few Eight Years still wandering around, and privately mourning the loss of his peace and quiet from the previous day. He would go to Madam Pomfrey and try to argue his way into a private suite, except he’d tried that already with McGonagall and had got a bit fat ‘no’ for his troubles. And a chocolate biscuit.

When he got nearer to his dormitory, his sensitive ears picked up the sound of shouting coming from inside. He couldn’t help cringing as he opened the door and the voices became infinitely louder. 

“—Now listen here, you overgrown leprechaun—!” 

“Feck off, _Birdfoot_! That’s me boyfriend in the next bed o’er, and I _swear_ it to Merlin if you don’t trade beds with me, I’ll—” 

The voice came to a strangled halt, and Draco suddenly found himself the focus of two pairs of startled eyes. Silence rang in the dormitory. Draco kept his chin up and his gaze frosty as he took in the sight of Seamus Finnegan and Terry Boot in front of him, red-faced and in each other’s personal spaces. Finnegan had his hands fisted in Boot’s robes, and he seemed to have been shaking the Ravenclaw before Draco’s untimely entrance. 

“Finnegan. Boot,” Draco acknowledged as politely as he could. “… Good morning,” he added a bit hastily when the boys had only continued to stare at him, frozen. He paused only a moment more, and then entered the dormitory properly and headed down to his bed at the far end. 

The other boys unfroze and bent their heads together in furious whispers. Draco heard them as clearly as if they were standing next to him. 

“Is that Malfoy? _Merlin_ , when the bloody hell did _he_ get here? You know, about this bed …” 

“Cor blimey, mate, you can _keep_ it. I think I’ll go make Zacharias Smith a bloody friendship bracelet.” Finnegan and Boot left the dorm then, sending suspicious glances at Draco over their shoulders as they departed. Draco was then gloriously alone. 

He approached his bed, frowning at the sight of his belongings strewn out over the duvet instead of stacked neatly on the bedside table, where he’d left them. An unfamiliar scent clung to the spines of the books and made his hackles raise. Territory was an important concept to him now, and an unknown intruder had very callously poached Draco’s. He felt the wolf baring its teeth behind the Occlumency shields and took a moment to strengthen them. The last thing he needed was the wolf to break loose and decide to sniff out the trespasser. 

Probably best to spare his classmates the sight of the Pureblood Prince snuffling around like an overeager scenthound. 

Sighing, Draco re-stacked his books and notes on the table, being sure to rub out the foreign scent as an appeasement to the wolf, and then finally got himself organised for the day ahead.

**•–•–•**

Minerva McGonagall prided herself in maintaining a cool head in all situations. She had spent decades as a foil to the brilliant but unquestionably mad Albus Dumbledore, had stared down Voldemort and his Death Eaters at the castle gates, and (most challengingly) been Head-of-House to not one but _two_ generations of Potter boys. There was very little left on this tiny planet that could rattle her. 

And yet here she was, the outside of her calm and resolute in appearance, but shaken to her core on the inside. The things she’d heard and seen this morning hinted at a new darkness, a looming nightmare at a time when all nightmares should have been over. 

Praying for her face to hold in all of the fear and the uncertainty within, she calmly strode towards the gargoyles guarding the entrance to her office and gave the password (jelly worms). The spiral stone staircase revealed itself, and only when she was safely ensconced in her office and hidden from anyone’s view did she finally release a shaken breath and close her eyes.

A soft voice broke the stillness of the room. ‘Time is a funny thing, Minerva. We cling so desperately to a linear model of hours and minutes and seconds, ticking resolutely ever forward, when the truth is much more complicated, as in all things. It moves like the oceans, in whirls and eddies, cyclic and repetitious.” 

McGonagall spared a glance at Albus Dumbledore’s oil-painted face, which was relaxed and lighted mutely. His eyes were closed as if in slumber, but a small smile crooked his mouth. 

“Albus, this is no time to wax poetic, and hardly a matter to smile about. I take it you’ve been wandering the portraits of Hogsmeade, again? Did you hear everything?” 

“I did.” Dumbledore’s face became quietly serious, and he opened his eyes. “Hogwarts has stood stalwart through many a nightmare, Minerva. Though the previous night was indeed the darkest, and the dawn that broke was particularly bright, it would be foolish to expect the sun to shine forever. Night will always fall again.”

The weathered Headmistress sighed and rubbed at her eyes. “I yearn for longer days, Albus. I’m an old woman; I’ve long earned my peace.”

A hint of humour returned behind those half-moon spectacles. “Not even a century old, and acting like you’ve one foot in the grave. When did you get to be so fatalistic, my dear?” 

McGonagall didn’t smile, but some of the tense lines in her face did ease slightly. “You’re right, of course. Enough maudlin moaning. We will deal with this threat like we’ve dealt with all others—swiftly and without mercy.” 

Albus smiled crookedly again and went back to feigning sleep. She lifted her wand to her throat. 

“Attention, Hogwarts students: morning classes today are hereby suspended. Please utilise this extra time before your afternoon classes to further prepare yourselves for the academic year ahead. All faculty members are to report to the teacher’s room at 9:00 this morning for a staff meeting. Faculty members to the staff room, please. 

“Finally, Draco Malfoy: please report to the Headmistress’s Office straight away. Draco Malfoy to the Headmistress’s Office. Thank you, that is all.”

**•–•–•**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I'm back!
> 
> This chapter took a long time to write, only because I'm so busy during the school year that I can only write in little spurts. Which makes it take even longer because it's tough to be consistent when it's several weeks between writing sessions.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's been a long time coming!
> 
> NOTE: It was pointed out that I'd been an idiot and put Marcus Flint as an 8th year when that's obviously impossible. Wicked, wicked giraffe! >:O I have since changed it to Zacharias Smith, a person equally detestable in my book (and this time the right age!)


	6. Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco Malfoy is, despite my rather pathetic attempt at desegregation this year, a Slytherin through-and-through. Reckless and self-sacrificing is the exact last thing he’ll be, isn’t it?

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vi  
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Harry and Hermione were in the Great Hall when they heard McGonagall’s announcement. There had been so much cheering about the cancellation of morning classes that Harry had almost missed the part about Malfoy—almost.

Why would Malfoy get called to the Headmistress’s office? Was he in trouble already, not even one day into term? Or did this have something to do with the morning cancellation, maybe something relating to his werewolf status …

Hermione didn’t miss the second half of the announcement either, judging from the way she immediately looked at Harry. “Um,” Harry tried, still distracted by his whirling thoughts, “That’s good luck, isn’t it? I think I’ll go take a nap since, you know, I woke up so early and all—” 

Hermione looked highly unimpressed with his excuse. “Oh, just go,” she snapped, staying resolutely seated at the 8th Year table. “I’m going to do something _sensible_ and prepare for Herbology this afternoon. By all means, go take that _nap,_ and try not to let Professor McGonagall catch you _napping_ around.” 

“Yes, okay Hermione, thanks very much, got the message,” Harry said irritably, embarrassed at being so transparent. “I’ll see you later.”

Outside, Harry paused just beneath the Entrance Hall’s central staircase. Malfoy would know in a split second why Harry was skulking around if he got caught, so Harry ended up going one floor too far and then coming back down a different, narrower staircase to avoid him. He peered discreetly around the corner at the entrance to Headmaster’s Tower from the opposite side and lamented his earlier decision to put the Invisibility Cloak away. It would have come in handy here. 

His heart raced as Malfoy’s form came up the main staircase moments later, as predicted. His pointy face advertised boredom and irritation, but his twitching fingers and clenching jaw revealed his nervousness. So Malfoy didn’t know why he was getting called up, either ... 

Malfoy stood straight and tall in front of the gargoyle blocking the entrance. “I don’t know the password. The Headmistress is expecting me,” he explained in a cool, confident manner. The gargoyle examined him, found him acceptable, and spun in place to reveal the winding staircase up to McGonagall’s office. 

What to do, what to do …? Harry didn’t have an invitation, he didn’t know the password, and even if he’d _had_ his Invisibility Cloak, he got the feeling that Malfoy would be able to hear his footsteps or his heartbeat, or smell him in the air somehow. He wasn’t exactly sure how sensitive werewolves were when they were in human form, as Lupin had never talked about his experiences with Harry, and Harry had never thought to ask him.

He stood helplessly by and watched the pale form of Malfoy glide up the first few set of stairs and out of sight as the gargoyle twisted back around and blocked the entryway once again. “Dammit,” he muttered under his breath. “Now what?” 

“Jelly worms,” said a high tinny voice, right in his ear. Harry startled, and turned towards the wall. It was the portrait of a blonde girl dressed in a pretty blue robe, lounging in a cluttered sitting room with a white Persian cat at her feet. 

“Sorry?” Harry replied dumbly. 

“Our new Headmistress has kept old Dumbledore’s habit of putting sweets as the password into the Headmaster’s Tower. Her current one is ‘jelly worms'.” She had an Irish accent and a mischievous glint in her oil-pastel eye. 

“Should you really be telling me that?” Harry asked, not sure what was going on. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be _very_ responsible with this information, won’t you Harry Potter?” She grinned widely at him, and Harry finally understood. He grinned back.

“Oh, _yes_. Absolutely.”

 

 

•–•–•

 

_Honestly._ It was the day after a full moon; it should be a miracle on its own that Draco could even _function_ this morning. But he could only be pushed so far, and if things kept going on the way they had been then Draco would have no choice but to crawl back into bed and sleep until the weekend. 

He stood regally straight in front of the gargoyle, not allowing his posture to slump, as it wanted. “I don’t know the password. The Headmistress is expecting me.”

The gargoyle eyed him stonily for a moment, before reluctantly twisting aside and revealing the stone staircase for him. Ugh, _stairs._ Why, _why_ did the universe continue to punish him? 

 _Malfoys do not show weakness,_ he reminded himself and ascended the stairs with all the grace of an emperor ascending his throne. He knocked three times on the solid oak door at the top and stepped back as it swung open.

“Come in, Mr Malfoy.” 

Draco had been inside the Headmaster’s Office once when he was younger than Hogwarts age. He’d been on a visit with his Father, who'd been graciously welcomed into Dumbledore’s office like the esteemed Governor he had once been. _The golden days_ … when the Malfoy name had meant something and his family had been prosperous and well-respected. He remembered it as an absorbing room, full of interesting artefacts and little whirring baubles. It had been almost a mirror to his Father’s collection of Dark instruments—except all Dumbledore’s objects had been of the Light.

Now, under the care of Minerva McGonagall, the surroundings were much less fanciful. On the shelves sat not brightly coloured distractions, but useful books and tools, well-thumbed and well-used. A tea caddy, an owl’s perch, the Sorting Hat still on its high shelf and most likely asleep, and the wall of portraits were all the same as he remembered. 

“Please do have a seat, Mr Malfoy, when you are finished with your ruminations.”

Draco flushed. He was even more exhausted than he thought, to be zoning out in front of the Headmistress. He moved to sit in the chair across the desk. 

“Forgive me for announcing such a summons aloud for the entire castle to hear, but I have always been an economical sort of witch, and it would’ve been remiss of me to waste a good Sonorous spell. I would have brought this up immediately after our run-in on the lawn, but I thought it best to allow you some well-deserved peace and breakfast first. I hope you understand.” 

“No, I do, it’s fine.”

She settled behind her desk, looking very sombre. “Now before this conversation goes any further, Mr Malfoy, I need you to once again assure me of your whereabouts and your state of mind last night.” 

Draco was taken aback. “What do you mean, what’s—”

“Don’t fret, just answer yes or no. Did you take Wolfsbane potion starting one week before the full moon?”

“Yes, I—” 

“Were you in the Shrieking Shack at least thirty minutes prior to sunset?”

“ _Yes_ , longer actually.”

“Was the potion useful in allowing you to retain your faculties after the transformation? Do you remember the entirety of last night?”

His heart was beating so fast. “Yes, Professor.” It wasn’t much of a lie, he told himself firmly. He remembered _most_ of it. It had been a bad batch of Wolfsbane for what he wanted it for, but it had still tamed the wolf (or drugged it, at any rate.) The parts he didn’t remember were due to unconsciousness, that’s all. It _wasn’t_ a lie.

“Is it possible that at any time last night, you could have gotten out of the Shrieking Shack?”

Oh, _Merlin_. Draco wouldn’t say he couldn’t fathom what was going on—his imagination was doing some pretty alarming fathoming. He barely held on to a civil tongue as he replied, “There is no way for a wolf to get out of the Shrieking Shack. It was meant to hold a werewolf _before_ the invention of Wolfsbane, as you well know Professor. What is this about, what’s happened?” 

“One more question, Mr Malfoy. Did you, at any point before sunset, step foot into the village of Hogsmeade?”

“ _No._ ”

McGonagall nodded sharply, and then her demeanour relaxed. “Forgive me for the line of questioning. I was already sure of your answers, but I had to ask anyway. Now then, perhaps some tea?”

Malfoy was nearly vibrating out of his skin trying to hold in his naturally sharp tongue. “Had plenty at breakfast, thank you. Could we get to the part where you tell me what’s going on?” 

McGonagall sipped at a cup of tea before taking a breath. “I will not mince words, Mr Malfoy, and I will not withhold details. I recognise that you are not a boy, but a young man, who does not need coddling—even still, be warned that this will be graphic, to say the least.” 

Draco swallowed. “Alright, Professor.” 

“A young woman, a niece to Mr Dervish who was apprenticing at his repair shop, was found dead this morning in the old ruins on the other side of the Hog’s Head. She appeared to have been mauled by some large animal.”

Draco lost all colour in his face. Words tumbled out of his mouth at an alarming rate. “ _Salazar._ Professor, it _wasn’t_ me, I swear it! I was in the Shrieking Shack the whole time; I’ve never even hunted an animal before let alone something like _this_. I’ve _always_ had Wolfsbane, even the first time—”

McGonagall held up a hand, and Draco’s mouth snapped shut out of mere habit. “As you have told me, and I believe you. I am not accusing you of this mauling, so please calm yourself.” She folded her hands neatly around her teacup, but her grip was tight. “In fact, it may not have been a mauling at all. Miss Dervish was not the only victim found at the scene—fourteen of Aberforth Dumbledore’s beloved goats were also found slain and scattered about Ms Dervish’s body. They looked as if they’d been killed elsewhere, and then dragged to the scene. There were lines of blood that connected them.” 

Draco just barely managed to keep his fingers curled in his lap and not on their way to be nibbled on—a nervous habit he thought he’d kicked a long time ago. “L-lines of blood, as in they formed some symbol? It could have been some attempt at a Dark ritual. A very _nasty_ ritual, to require so much blood. Did she … did the victim look like a sacrificial offering?”

McGonagall seemed to hesitate, blinking slowly, before answering. “Too early to say. I have placed memories of the scene into a Pensieve, and our experts will review them in depth. I will also be doing my own research.” 

“I see. I, of course, can open up the Malfoy library to your disposal, Professor. We have an extensive collection of Dark manuscripts that you may find—”

“Thank you, but I do not require any of your … riveting reading materials, Mr Malfoy. The Aurors did detect the barest hint of Dark Magic lingering in the air, but it was no more than is typical for an old village like Hogsmeade. That, coupled with bloody paw prints at the scene, means this is still being handled for the moment as a mere animal attack.”

Draco frowned. If she didn’t want anything from him, then what was she telling him all this classified Auror stuff for? “Professor, I’m getting confused. If it was a mauling, I understand why you had to confirm my whereabouts last night, full moon and all. But if it _wasn’t_ an animal attack, if it was murder … then the full moon gives me an iron-tight alibi. There is no way I could have done a Dark ritual in wolf-form. I didn’t kill that girl!” 

McGonagall raised an eyebrow as Draco’s voice veered dangerously back into the emotional territory. “I have already told you, Mr Malfoy, that I am not accusing you. I do, however, think that you may offer some insight into the second explanation, in light of your situation.”

“What insight?” 

“Hagrid and the ministry experts conferred over the paw prints and the condition of the bodies, and while the officiates were quick to confirm it as an animal mauling, Hagrid was not so convinced.” 

Draco withheld the dubious expression that wanted to paint his face at the mention of the half-giant. It wasn’t his place, anymore, to criticise the purity of anyone—in fact, he was worse-off than Hagrid, who retained half of his humanity at least. Draco was a full monster, diseased and pitiful. To look down at Hagrid now would be like shite insulting the bottom of a shoe. 

“His evidence?”

“Natural predators—even magical ones—kill because they are hungry. But Ms Dervish and the fourteen goats were _not_ eaten, merely killed and played with. Hagrid considers that to be reason enough to look at it as the work of an _unnatural_ creature.”

Draco nodded. “He suspects werewolf activity. It’s why you called me up here.” 

“Yes. Hagrid said he’s certain, though the Ministry did not look keen on the idea.”

“I see. And you thought of me immediately. You thought I’d done it, however briefly.” He tried not to sound churlish or angry. McGonagall tapped a finger irritably on the desktop but then capitulated with a nod of her head.

“Perhaps, for a mere instant. But then my common sense returned, and I followed a more logical line of inquiry. Such as whether the Aurors have yet captured one of the only Death Eaters left free.”

Draco’s blood went cold, and the wolf whined and showed its belly. “ _Fenrir Greyback_ …”

“There is no way to confirm if it was Greyback,” she replied softly, “It could have easily been some random lone wolf out of the Forest. Regardless, I do hope you realise how lucky you are to be alive. You were only a few hundred yards away from the crime scene; it could have smelled you and come to challenge you. Thank goodness for the protections of the Shrieking Shack.”

Draco knew better than to be taken in by McGonagall’s easy dismissal. Any werewolf living in the Forbidden Forest knew well enough to stay away from Hogwarts, if not for the protective magic around the school then for the very hostile Centaurs that lived close by. A werewolf like Fenrir, however, carried with him a wealth of old grudges and just enough madness to act upon them. If there truly had been a werewolf in Hogsmeade last night, it could only have been the one who was an ex-Death Eater with enough crazy in him to take on Hogwarts alone.

In this case, McGonagall had called the wrong student up here. “Shouldn’t you be telling Potter this, and not me?” 

McGonagall blinked. “Mr Potter? And what, pray tell, does he have to do with any of this?”

Draco kept his teeth clenched against the ‘ _Potter has everything to do with everything according to the entire blasted world, always and forever, the end’_ that wanted to come out. The words that _did_ come out were only slightly less petty. “Greyback’s a Death Eater. I just thought that as the Gryffindor hero-in-residence, Potter was the one more likely to be targeted by crazy ex-Death Eaters.” 

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “Rest assured, this time it is none of Mr Potter’s business.” She stared over his shoulder, glaring at the office door while she said this as if her eyes could peer through stone walls and wooden floors and deliver that disapproving look straight to Potter. “Barring any idiocy on his part that involves sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, I won’t tell him a thing. If _you_ feel he must know, I’ll leave that up to you.”

 _Potter can wait till the second coming of Merlin for all I care. He’s not getting a word out of me, nosy bastard._  

“I called you here to tell you all of this because it is _your_ business, Draco.” McGonagall’s use of his first name sent a shock through his body. He stared at her with wide eyes as she gazed earnestly back. “Greyback is more connected to you than anyone else in the world not already in Azkaban. I don’t need to remind you that it’s his mark you wear upon on your arm. It is _your_ safety that is in jeopardy. It could have been you and not Ms Dervish found dead this morning, and I’ll not tempt that fate again.” 

The Headmistress stood up, placing dignified hands behind her back and gazing at him with a look of ultimate authority. “Until this werewolf who may or may not be Fenrir Greyback is taken care of, Hogsmeade and the Shrieking Shack are off-limits to you and all other students. I’ll need you to come up with an alternate location for your monthly chore as soon as possible so that I can make the necessary arrangements.”

 _Monthly chore._ What a lovely way to put it. Once a month, one might have to clean the potions laboratory or trim the bristles on one’s racing broom. Draco has to get all his bones broken, _twice_. No big deal. “I’ll give it some thought, Professor.”

“Good,” McGonagall nodded. “See that you do. Also, I want you to keep your ears open and wits about you, especially when venturing outside. Hogwarts does have wards on the grounds that should prevent Dark creatures from penetrating the property line, but as you know from personal experience, there are ways around such measures for those willing to be exceptionally creative.” Draco swallowed at this, unable to prevent the flush of shame that welled up at the clear reminder of his wrongdoings in Sixth Year. “If you sense _any_ danger, if you feel something is out of place or wrong, seek a teacher immediately. Don’t wait to find me. As hard as it is to hear, the lives of my students are more important to me than keeping your secret.” 

 _All depends on the life,_ he thought, thinking of Potter unkindly. “I understand, Professor.” 

McGonagall eyed him critically before her gaze softened and she said, “Very well. Keep me updated, and I’ll do the same. If it becomes certain that it _was_ Fenrir Greyback, then we will have more to discuss. Until then, you are dismissed—I highly recommend you take a nap before Herbology this afternoon, you look like you could use the rest.”

Draco nodded. “Alright. Thank you, Professor, for telling me all this. I ... do appreciate it,” he said stiffly yet sincerely and then left.

 

•–•–•

 

When he was gone, McGonagall remained quiet for a moment, staring at the chair Malfoy had just vacated. 

“You didn’t tell him,” Albus commented softly. “You said you would not withhold anything from him, yet you omitted the part most personal to him. Why?” 

“He doesn’t need to know. That boy has enough to be dealing with, without burdening him further. I’ll make sure his full moons are as safe as they can be. This castle will keep him safe in the interim.” 

“I though we’d rather learned our lessons about keeping highly relevant information from sulky teenage boys,” Albus drawled cheekily, though not without some measure of seriousness. “It causes them to go truth-seeking down alternate, often dangerous roads.” McGonagall rolled her eyes. 

“Yes, that was decidedly idiotic of us, my dear man, but this is different. This is _not_ Harry Potter. I think, despite all the uncertainty and struggle he may face, we can trust Malfoy to be better than Potter at handling himself.” 

“And why do you say that?” 

“Simple. Draco Malfoy is, despite my rather pathetic attempt at desegregation this year, a Slytherin through-and-through. Reckless and self-sacrificing is the exact _last_ thing he’ll be, isn’t it?” 

Dumbledore conceded the point with a nod of his chin.


End file.
